


Angel On The Cutting Room Floor

by maharieel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Bruises, F/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, leandra deserves better 2k16, post-breakup feels, very mild erotic thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 16:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8217700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maharieel/pseuds/maharieel
Summary: Being a mummy's girl is great until the mummy dies in a mutilated mess of blood magic and obsession.





	

**Author's Note:**

> all that remains shattered my soul into a thousand tiny pieces and I had to write something about it. didn't turn out as angsty as i'd expected, but the subtext speaks more than it usually does in this one.

Hawke had not been seen in weeks, as if she’d merely turned into a ghost and vanished from existence entirely.

The memory of her bloodstained arms cradling the limp and mutilated form of Leandra still haunted him like he presumed it did Hawke, such an atrocity that he didn’t think even the dwarf would forget it. That and the eruption of magic from Hawke in the aftermath, or the hoarseness of her voice as she pleaded – no, _begged_ – Anders to do something with that demon of his, or the silence that had clung to them for what felt like years after Hawke seemed to have lost any semblance of feeling. 

If it hadn’t been for the occasional appearance of Bodahn on his way to the market, Fenris would have presumed Hawke to have joined her mother.

He’d seen her a few days after the incident; he may have gone sooner if it wasn’t for his own conflicting emotions. He had left her, after all. Who was to say she even wished for his presence at all? But the gnawing of his heart had driven him to her door not for the first time since they’d met and that had been that.

Sandal, of all people, had greeted him. Any shock had been shoved out of him though as shouting had echoed from the main foyer and he’d strode into the estate with only a brief glance of acknowledgement towards the young dwarf. Considering the somewhat frustrated glare Bodahn had thrown Fenris as he’d appeared in the doorway, the unusual hospitality of his not-quite-son had not been appreciated. He didn’t think the dwarf had a cruel bone in his body though, and Fenris hadn’t been given a second glance as Bodahn went back to arguing with . . . Gamlen. _Maker_.

“ – is it?” Hawke’s uncle had snapped, an arm flung wildly in the direction of the second level. Bodahn had been standing near the foot of the stairs in a poor attempt to block Gamlen’s progress. “It’s been days! She has no right to bar me from inspecting my own bloody sister’s belongings.”

Fenris hadn’t appreciated the irony of the human’s words.

Neither man had overly acknowledged him as he’d shoved past – Gamlen bearing the brunt of his shoulder – and made his way towards Hawke’s quarters. Not even Gamlen had seemed capable of throwing any more of his usual anger around, having sighed and turned back towards the door with a half-hearted curse.

It had been cold in the estate. Not in the way drafts slipped through cracks in Danarius’s mansion and sent his skin prickling, or the brittleness of the winds that rolled along the Wounded Coast in winter. No, it had been cold in the sense of a graveyard, derived of any life, as if a cloud of grief had followed Hawke home from that dreaded foundry and encompassed the entire mansion. The feeling had only got worse upon entering her quarters. Dying candles had been her only source of light and the bright aura that was so quintessentially _Hawke_ had all but vanished into the darkness.

And she’d been crying.

The image of swollen eyes and reddened cheeks had been such an unpleasant site on that usually pristine face. It had only been after the few words between them – her voice nothing but a barely audible rasp – that Fenris had realised he’d never seen her cry. Not in all the years since he’d encountered her that night. Hawke was many things (crude, sarcastic, spoilt, practical) but weak? The few times he’d noticed such a thing, her dignity had hidden it away before anyone could speak of it.

Her scarred hands gripping the front of his shirt had drawn him from the disturbing thought as she’d unexpectantly buried herself against him and broken into deeper sobs. He had been grateful for the closed door as he’d reluctantly returned the embrace, eventually moving to kneel on the bed as she slowly broke before him. Hawke, who had always been taller than most people in both stature and attitude. Hawke, who had always been unafraid of confrontation no matter the consequences. Mighty, beautiful Hawke, who had always held her chin high and her self-appreciation higher. And there she’d been, a bundled mess of sheets and pale robes threatening to tear his shirt into ribbons with those sharpened nails of hers. He wouldn’t have minded if she had.

Fenris had remained until she’d eventually pushed herself away and slipped under the blankets hours later. He’d briefly caught her eyes, though, and the plea had been clear: no-one was to know.

So he’d left, opening the door only to nearly trip over her Mabari as it had rushed to replace his spot on the bed. Under any other circumstance Fenris was sure the dog would have been greeted with yelling for dirtying her expensive sheets, but instead the small lump that was Hawke had simply shuffled closer against the Mabari’s side. The sight had been so unlike the woman he ~~loved~~ knew that it had halted his progress out her door momentarily.

That had been _weeks_ ago.

No-one had even sighted Hawke since his visit, although he had the suspicion that Aveline had slipped into the estate one morning earlier in the week. The guard-captain would not speak of it, though, just as he had not spoken of his few hours with Hawke. Even grief-stricken, Hawke would not have anyone see her at her lowest unless she deemed it so. Fenris may have smiled at the thought under any other circumstance.

Drinking wine that reminded him too much of Tevinter, Fenris leant back in his chair and sighed. The sound of rain clattered madly against the windows of the mansion and a small pool was gathering in the far corner from a broken portion of the wall. Not that he really cared. The place was enough of a dump already and he simply didn’t have the energy to bother repairing anything.

The bottle had long been discarded on the floor when something caught his ear. Jolting awake from the light slumber he’d slipped into, Fenris grabbed for his sword from where it rested against the table. Even over the thunderous storm outside, his ears caught the banging at the front door. Stalking through the mansion and, frankly, prepared to rip someone’s throat out for disturbing him, Fenris pulled the door open. He levelled his sword almost instantly, muscles tensed and –

_Hawke._

She was soaked to the bone, blonde hair plastered across her face and down her back as she looked at him from under heavy eyelids. Leather pants and a simple pink tunic made up the entirety of her clothes and considering the slight chattering of her teeth, she was probably regretting that, not that the words would ever slip from her. Fenris caught his eyes lingering on the way her tunic was slicked against her skin, clearly brandishing the outline of her breasts, and snapped his gaze back to hers before throwing the door open and ushering her inside. Despite her predicament, she didn’t hurry to make her way inside, or dry herself.

Fenris simply stared at her blankly for a few moments.

“Would you like a towel?” he asked finally.

She nodded. Taking her hair in her hands, she threw it over one shoulder, the mane of blonde slapping against her collarbone rather unceremoniously.

He left her dripping in the foyer while he searched out a towel. By the time he returned, she hadn’t moved an inch. He realised after a moment that it was because of the growing pool of water around her.

“Thank you,” she muttered.

Again, he stood there like a fool for another few moments as she slowly dragged the towel over her hair, her face, her chest. It was only at the sight of her perked breasts that he realised she wasn’t wearing her breast band.

Fenris was certain she heard the rock slide down his throat as he stalked deeper into the mansion in a pathetic attempt at hiding the tinge to his cheeks. It was common knowledge that she forwent the band around the estate, and on more than one occasion he’d noticed the subtle bounce of her shirt that was absent on their usual traipsing’s about the city. Lacking no self-confidence, Hawke had even pronounced it to their table at the Hanged Man one rather alcohol-induced evening. Isabela seemed to be the only one with any semblance of understanding. Despite the complicated relationship between the two women (the jokes and sexual innuendos didn’t do as well to hide the slight tension between the pair as they both probably believed) they seemed capable of agreeing on that, in the very least. He shouldn’t have been so shocked at the revelation that she’d abandoned the band on her short trip to the mansion. Perhaps the rain-soaked shirt had simply shocked him. Either way, his crotch had burned slightly at the site before he’d managed to turn away.

A few moments of silence clung to the frigid air as Fenris led Hawke up the stairs and into the main study that had become his makeshift bedroom as of late. When she made no move to take a seat on the dilapidated couch, neither did he. The words of comfort any other person would have spoken evaded him but she broke the silence before he had to. “I’m aware of the late hour, if that’s what you were about to point out,” she said, and it was only then Fenris realised he’d opened his mouth as if to speak. He promptly closed it. “But I . . . found myself in need of some assistance and you were the closest.”

He attempted to ignore the lie. “Assistance?”

“Yes,” she said rather half-heartedly. “Usually I’d . . . I wouldn’t normally have had to leave the estate for it, but times change.”

 _Mothers die._ “Anything.”

The look she gave him tore at him almost as much as her fingernails had some weeks ago and at the thought his vision slipped to her hands. Still elongated, still a pale pink, still glittering in the faint moonlight. The sight eased something within him, at least. Meeting her eyes again left him faced with nothing but a silent grief she’d no doubt been trying desperately to mask.

Hawke turned then, back facing him, and achingly lifted the back of her shirt.

A spectacular bruise splayed itself across her pale back, tones of purple, yellow, blue and green splattered like paint across the canvas of her skin. Small scrapes and cuts intermixed with the blooming colours and the rawness of them was easily visible even in the dim light. He’d known – just as they all had – that such a sight was not rare on Hawke, and years of fighting had made them all grow accustom to it whether they liked it or not. Something about pale skin and a bad diet Carver had once quipped to Varric amongst the Lowtown market. She’d simply thrown a glare over her shoulder before continuing to rummage through a crate of potions.

Many people bruised, and considering their line of work these days, Fenris wouldn’t have expected any less. But never had he seen such a large monstrosity and never on Hawke. _It’s not the first_ , he thought bitterly, judging from the little pain she’d known since she had arrived. Surely she was aching something terrible. _Unless ones of such a severity occur often enough for her to have become accustom to it_.

“Hawke,” he eventually managed to make out, fingers hesitating centimetres from the surface of her skin. He suddenly had the urge to know when it had been inflicted and by who’s hand.

She granted him more silence to examine her. The ghosts of his fingertips traced the outlines of it, noticing how much of her skin had turned blotched and colourful, and he half expected her to shiver at the touch as he surely would have. But she was like a corpse before him, pale and bruised and unmoving. As she always did, she caught the question in him even with her gaze averted. “Aveline and I headed to the Coast a few days ago,” she said matter-of-factly, as if she hadn’t become a myth as of late. “Nothing we couldn’t handle. A few skirmishes.”

 _Of course._ “You were thrown,” he said instead, fingers retracting back to his side.

Hawke let her shirt fall and busied herself with a small jar he’d only just spied by her hip. “Boulder broke my fall. Nothing more than . . . that,” she added hastily as she turned back to face him. The lack of glint to her words unsettled him. “It distracted me, in the very least. A bit of blood and physicality.”

The word was dredged back and forward through his mind as she made to kneel on the couch, leaving her back facing him. The shimmer of the jar in her hands caught his eye. “A healing balm, then?”

A cough. “Something like that.”

Fenris moved to join her on the couch (a bed would have been marginally more practical for the task he was certain she was about to ask of him, although he presumed she wouldn’t appreciate a face-full of moth balls and dented springs). Once again she exposed her back to him, and again he knew it would have been more practical for the shirt to be removed entirely. _For my benefit, or hers, then,_ he wondered absently as she passed him the small silver jar.

Orana could have done this. Maker, Bodahn had the gait of a man who had much-too-tender hands. Considering the still unspoken fact that the role of soothing Hawke’s apparently frequent bruises had fallen to Leandra, Fenris felt almost . . . inadequate. His callous, battle-worn hands were not smooth, or soft, or kind. And yet, of all the doorsteps in Kirkwall Hawke could have stumbled to through the rain, she’d chosen his. Perhaps it _had_ been a simple case of him being the closest.

The ghost of a smile she let slip as she turned to pass off the balm told him otherwise.

A myriad of smells assaulted his nose seconds after unscrewing the lid and under any other circumstance he was positive his sudden cough would have had Hawke in stitches. Instead her back simply lifted in a huff. _Good enough._ Scooping a small portion onto his fingertips, Fenris instinctually froze at the odd warmth emanating from the pale cream in his hand. Seconds later, the lyrium gracing his hand begin to glow faintly.

“Sorry,” Hawke whispered. “Magic.”

It didn’t bother him, though. The barely-there thrum of magic made his fingers tingle somewhat and the familiarity of the feeling eased the panic that had surged within him. Instead he began rubbing circles into the bruises, attempting to be as gentle as possible.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, his hands coated in cream on Hawke’s back while she hung her head and let out the occasional content sigh. _An hour, perhaps?_ By the time he’d nearly finished, the area he had begun in had already started to fade back to its normal pale skin colour.

“I made it,” Hawke said, obviously feeling him pause in slight shock. “It’s taken years, but I perfected the recipe a few months ago.”

Fenris wiped the left over cream onto his own wrist and almost smiled at the slight tingle as the remnants of Hawke’s magic contacted with the lyrium. “Why not simply use a healing spell?”

“Too crude. And I was never good at repairing things,” she said with a sigh. “Bethany was always the one who took healing magic lessons with father when we were younger.” Handing back the jar, Fenris and Hawke remained on the couch for a few moments more. Eventually Hawke’s bruises had all but faded to pale yellows and browns and she let her shirt fall back down. Fenris had contemplated asking after her father and these ‘magic lessons’, but figured she’d probably already spoken more than she wanted to. Instead, he was content to simply watch her magical balm do its work on her, all the while taking in the slight frizz to her somewhat-dry hair and the blood that was caught under her nails from her time with Aveline and the darkness that clung to her eyes that wasn’t one of her usual fashion statements. Despite her haggard state, she was still an ethereal site, all pale and golden and _Hawke_. As much as Leandra had meant to her, he didn’t think the woman had taken all of her daughter with her to wherever dead souls went.

Or so he hoped.

Hawke had left soon after the thought had crossed his mind, giving him a long look and a soft thank you. He cursed himself as she left, because all he wanted to do was hold her in his arms and touch her. But he couldn’t because _he’d_ left, because there were boundaries when you left someone, because if he let himself love her any more than he already did then surely the darkness would tear at them both.

Either way, his mouth went dry as he watched her descend into the splatter of rain, her just-dried hair instantly ruined again.

The tingling in his wrist lingered all night.

**Author's Note:**

> hawke has a bruising problem and this was probably the first time her mum wasn't the one to help her soothe them, so it means a lot that fenris is the one she goes to, break-up or no.


End file.
